Roots
by Luke1813
Summary: What do heroes do once the epic adventure is over? And what do witchers do when the world no longer needs them? Geralt confronts those questions in the midst of a dangerous search for a lost treasure in war-torn Temeria. This story is a sequel to the 'bittersweet' ending of The Witcher 3 videogame. Contains major spoilers of both the books and games (including the expansions).


oOo

Author's Notes (January 2020):

Story Synopsis: What do heroes do once the epic adventure is over? And what do witchers do when the world no longer needs them? Geralt confronts those questions in the midst of a dangerous search for a lost treasure in war-torn Temeria. This story is a sequel to the 'bittersweet' ending of The Witcher 3 videogame.

Warnings: This story contains major spoilers of both the books and games (including the expansions). It is not 100% canon compliant. In this tale, the Axii Sign does not exist. While it may be an interesting game mechanic, I simply don't have the talent to reconcile all of the plot inconsistencies that it creates. See my author's Bio for a fuller explanation.

Words of Gratitude: I was first introduced to Geralt of Rivia in the spring of 2016, and almost four years later, I am still intrigued by him and his universe. I believe that is a testament to the incredibly talented and dedicated professionals at CD Projekt Red, who made such an amazing game with such interesting and complex characters. Experiencing their game helped me to discover and pursue this new hobby of creative writing – a hobby that I find both enjoyable and rewarding. And for that, I am incredibly grateful. So, thank you, CD Projekt Red. Thank you for pouring so much passion into your games that it spills over onto the rest of us.

Disclaimer: This work is based on the characters and universe created and owned by Andrzej Sapkowski and/or CD Projekt Red. It was undertaken strictly for my enjoyment and hopefully for yours, as well.

oOo

Roots

Chapter 1

_White Orchard, 1272_

The faint smile on the witcher's face grew when he saw the tracks in the snow. A light dusting overnight had blanketed the area in a fresh layer of white, obscuring all the old, animal spoor. There wasn't a single rabbit or deer track to be seen, making the prints in front of him that much easier to detect. The prints were unmistakable to him. He would've recognized them anywhere, and knowing that he was close, his smile widened even further. He lifted his gaze to notice that the tracks led toward a sparsely wooded hillside, and he stepped off in their direction, anticipating what lay ahead.

As usual, he allowed his enhanced senses to take in his surroundings as he moved. The crisp breeze rustled the leaves on the evergreens and brought a slight sting to his cheeks. A sting that wasn't painful but, rather, one that energized him, making him feel alive. The crunching sound of his boots compacting the snow with each step didn't unnerve him – as it usually might. For, at the moment, he wasn't worried about noise discipline. In fact, he thought the noise was an almost pleasant, hypnotic sound that seemed to mix perfectly with the sight of his exhalations turning into white frost the instant they hit the morning air. And to top it all off, the first rays of the sun were just peeking up over the horizon, bathing the countryside in a golden aura. It was one of those mornings that made the witcher think that maybe the world wasn't rotten and forsaken after all. A morning that represented hope and fresh beginnings. There was a tranquility to it all that reached down into his soul. But the witcher knew that it wasn't truly the morning landscape that was behind the foreign – but quite welcome - sense of peace and contentment. He'd actually been feeling that way for a while now. Ever since the summer.

And it was at that moment that he walked out of the small thicket of trees and was brought out of his thoughts by the sight in front of him. Ahead, on top of a large, flat-topped boulder perched his ward – her thick coat buttoned-up tightly, her chin resting against the hairs of the fur-lined collar. On her back was the new witcher sword that he'd gifted her in the early fall. She was sitting motionless, just gazing out on the picturesque, snow-covered field below. Seeing her like that, he involuntarily stopped and stared at her for just a moment. Though she'd been back in his life for almost six months now, he'd still find himself just staring at her for minutes at a time. He couldn't help himself. Prior to their reunion that past summer, he hadn't seen her in years, and it still amazed him that the grown woman in front of him was the same, spoiled, impetuous teenager that he'd last known a half-decade ago. To be truthful, her physical appearance hadn't changed all that much in the intervening years. But everything else had.

Ciri was sitting in profile, and as the witcher scanned her face, his smile returned, this time reaching his eyes. For, though the two of them were not connected biologically, he thought that she could easily pass as his daughter, and that thought warmed him. Like him, she was tall and lean, and her long, ashen hair – which, as was her custom, she had pulled back into a bun that morning – was quite similar to his milky-white own_. _

'_Hell,'_ thought the witcher, _'we even have similar scars on our left cheeks.'_

"You're staring at me again," she said, interrupting the silence.

She continued looking straight ahead, but he could see a smile come to her lips.

"Yeah, I am. Sorry."

"Don't be," she answered, turning her head to face him - the smile still present. "I actually kind of like it…at least, when you do it. I know you're not staring at my scar."

Geralt walked up next to the boulder and leaned against it, looking up slightly at Ciri.

"And I understand," she continued. "After everything we've been through, it's sometimes hard to believe that we're finally back together. Sometimes I want to just reach out and touch you – to make sure that you're real."

The witcher nodded, and then he quickly reached up and pinched her on her cheek.

"Hey!" she yelled out, before laughing and swatting his hand away.

"You're real," he said with a grin. "I know what you mean. Maybe by next summer it will have finally all set in, and we'll start taking each other for granted. Hell, by then, you may be sick of me."

Suddenly, the smile fell from Ciri's lips, and she looked away, back out towards the field in front of her.

Geralt knew he'd said something wrong, but he wasn't sure exactly what. That's when he noticed all the hare traps on the ground at their feet. He furrowed his brow at the sight.

"Not up to hunting rabbits anymore?"

"Not really."

She was still staring straight ahead, and the witcher peered at his ward for a moment in silence.

"What changed your mind?" he finally asked.

Ciri exhaled deeply and turned back to face him.

"To be honest, I never really wanted to. I just wanted to take a walk with you."

"Well, we can do that, too," he replied, his smile returning to his face. "Like I've said a hundred times already, 'I'm game for whatever you want to do.'"

"Whatever? Are you sure?"

"Of course."

The two stared at each other for a long pause before Ciri finally turned back to the view in front of her.

"It's so beautiful here. I wish…." But she stopped short, not finishing her thought.

Geralt glanced at the snow-covered field in front of them for a second before looking at Ciri again.

"Yeah, it is, but wait until you see Dol Blathanna in the spring. The valley will be covered in flowers - of every color. I swear, it's the prettiest thing you've ever seen."

When she turned to look at him, he smiled and raised his hands in mock-surrender.

"Well, maybe not the prettiest thing _you've_ ever seen. I don't know all the worlds and places you've been to. But it's definitely in my top five."

He was expecting her to at least crack a small smile, but instead she just pursed her lips. And he thought that her eyes were starting to water. He wasn't sure if it was tears or from the cold.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded.

"I'm fine."

The witcher knew her too well to believe that.

"Are you upset still…that you lost your powers? That you can't travel to other worlds anymore?"

In a way that she didn't understand, after confronting – and defeating - the apocalyptic White Frost six months ago, she had been stripped of her powers derived from her Elder Blood. Even Avallac'h – the elven sage who had been training her to use her powers and probably knew more about the mysteries of the Elder Blood than any living being – could not give an adequate explanation. Which, Geralt knew, must have deeply irritated the arrogant Aen Saevherne, who seemed to never tire of pontificating on virtually every topic under the suns – both the sun of the witcher's world and those of foreign worlds, as well.

"It's weird, is it not?" Ciri said, with a rueful smile. "My entire life I considered the Elder Blood to be a curse…wished that I'd never had it. Hated that everyone only wanted to use me for my powers - as a tool for their own schemes." She then looked at Geralt with tenderness. "Well, almost everyone.

"I hated being _special._ I just wanted to be normal, to live a normal life. But, now…now that it's gone…it's like a piece of me is missing. I don't know – I'm probably not explaining myself very well."

"Nah, I think I get it. If I suddenly lost my ability to use Signs – or even worse, the ability to use my swords – I probably wouldn't know what to do with myself either. So, don't beat yourself up over it. It'll probably just take a while to adjust. Just be patient with yourself. You'll figure it out. You always do."

Ciri reached out and grabbed his hand.

"You always seem to know the right thing to say," she said, giving his hand a squeeze. "To give me confidence in myself…when it's so hard to find it on my own."

He squeezed her hand back and looked into her eyes.

"Well, it sure as hell doesn't _feel_ like I always know the right thing to say, but I'm glad you think I do. That I can support you…because you're my favorite person in the whole world. You know that, right?"

"I do," she answered softly, giving a short nod of her head.

There was no mistaking it this time, he thought. She was definitely tearing-up, and, suddenly, Geralt flashed back to when Ciri was a little girl. For, in that moment, she looked so vulnerable – just like she had as an eleven-year old at Kaer Morhen. She had always tried to act strong and put on a tough face, but every once in a while, she'd let him see behind the mask. Especially at night, when the night terrors would come. When her memories of the Slaughter of Cintra and the burning of the city would cause her to cry out in her sleep. He could remember her sneaking into his room on those nights, sniffling her nose, and pleading with him in her shaking voice.

_"Geralt, could I…could I sleep with you…please?"_

He had never once denied her.

She always laid on her side facing away from him but would want his arm draped over her so that she could hug it to her chest. And after she eventually fell asleep, he'd stay in that exact position for the rest of the night. He had never wanted to disturb her peaceful rest. And on those nights, when she was curled up next to him, the nightmares would never return. Being so close to her had been awkward for him at first – for he had never spent any time in his life around little girls, much less had one snuggled up against him. But, now, those were some of his most cherished memories.

"What is it?" Ciri asked. "That look on your face?"

"I was just remembering you – back at Kaer Morhen," he said with a smile.

"Really?"

He nodded.

"It seems like a lifetime ago. Gods, I was insufferable back then, wasn't I?"

"Well, you could be…_prickly_, at times, but it was understandable. You'd been put through hell. It would have traumatized anyone – much less a little kid. And then to make matters worse, you got stuck in a dreary fortress in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of witchers. Why we thought we were qualified to raise a little girl is beyond me. I'm truly amazed at how well you turned out."

She squeezed his hand again.

"You really think so?"

"Of course. Hell, Ciri, you risked your life to save this awful world. I don't know of anyone else who would do that. I sure as hell wouldn't."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You act like you don't care, but you can't fool me. Helping others – who do you think I learned that from? Lambert? I saw you die in Rivia, remember? I saw you die for a bunch of strangers."

The witcher shook his head.

"I'd die for you…and for Yen…for people I care about. But this world? No way. But you were willing to. You risked your life for the entire world. All of it – the good and the bad. And that shows just what kind of person you are. I'm…I'm really proud of the woman you've become."

Suddenly, Ciri leapt off of the boulder and wrapped her arms around Geralt.

"I'm sorry, Geralt," she whispered, her arms still holding him tight.

"For what?"

"For…for everything. For being so difficult back at Kaer Morhen. Our months there passed by so quickly. I wish…I wish we'd spent more time together then."

The witcher didn't say anything. He just held her close and lowered his head, until his cheek was resting on her hair. Eventually, after the longest time, she loosened her hug and took a step away from him. He saw the tears welling in her eyes.

"Ciri?"

But she didn't answer him, turning quickly away instead.

"Let's go for that walk, shall we?" she said over her shoulder as she began walking up the hill.

Over the next couple of hours, the witcher and his ward wandered through the forested hills above White Orchard, reminiscing the entire time. They spoke of their adventures together and their adventures apart. They recalled memories of their mutual friends – Yarpen Zigrin, Dandelion, Ermion, Eskel, and Lambert – just to name a few. And, of course, they spoke of Vesemir. Through most of it, Ciri kept the tone in her voice light, but, despite that, Geralt could tell something was bothering her. But he wasn't going to pry. He knew that she'd tell him when she was ready and that if he tried to push her, then she'd stubbornly resist. That made him smile, for that was yet another way in which they were so similar.

They were a mile south of the village when Ciri looked up and noticed the location of the sun in the sky. She then sighed deeply.

"Geralt, we should get back, okay?"

"Alright," he said with a nod. "We didn't catch any game, but I've got a few coins left. We can catch a late breakfast at the inn. Sound good?"

She simply nodded and then turned north. For the entire walk back, she barely said a word. She just kept her head and eyes down and mumbled out her responses to Geralt's remarks. He had just about had enough of her moodiness and was about to ask her what the hell was wrong when noise from the village stopped him in his tracks. It was the sounds of neighing horses and men in metal armor. He cautiously walked a few steps further – out of the orchard – so that he could get a clear view of what lay ahead, and when he did, his hand flashed upward and gripped the hilt of his steel sword. For in front of them was an entire company of Nilfgaardian cavalry right in the middle of the village. Dozens and dozens of black-clad soldiers atop their mounts. Multiple banners – all with a golden sun on a black field – snapped in the morning wind.

"Geralt," Ciri said softly from behind. "Don't draw your sword. They're here for me."

She had stopped several paces behind him, and he turned to see tears running down her face. She broke-eye contact with him – but only for a moment. She hesitantly brought her eyes back up to meet his.

The witcher shook his head – trying to calm down all the thoughts that were suddenly running through his mind – and then turned away from Ciri. He just stood there, staring at the long, double-file of Nilfgaardians. Eventually, his ward walked up next to him.

"I tried my best to forget it was today."

Geralt didn't know what to say. And he was suddenly afraid to look at Ciri so he just kept facing forward, but he could see her turn towards him out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm going to Nilfgaard, Geralt. Well, to Vizima for now. But once the war is over, Emhyr and I will head back south."

The witcher dropped his eyes to the ground in front of him, but he wasn't really seeing anything at that point. His brows were furrowed and he was just shaking his head ever so slightly.

"I know this is a shock for you, but in Vizima, my father and I spoke for a long time. Argued really."

Suddenly, Geralt looked at Ciri, his brow furrowed even deeper.

"Your…your _father_?"

Ciri swallowed but maintained eye contact.

"Yes…like it or not, that's who he is. I can't deny it."

"Have you forgotten _what_ he is - what he wanted to do to you?"

"Of course not, but…that was years ago. People change, Geralt. I believe that he's changed. Besides, my decision is not about him."

"No? Then, what's it about?"

"It's about me and my place in this world. I realized that I had to stop fleeing. Realized that if I wish to change anything, I can't do so chasing monsters around forgotten villages. I must do so from there – from the throne."

Geralt couldn't bear to look at her anymore so he faced forward again. He stood still for several long moments – just trying to center himself – before he could even speak.

"You could have told me – warned me this was coming."

"I wanted to, but I didn't know how. I've been happy these past months with you…on the Path. I was afraid I would ruin it if I told you. I wanted to make every second count."

Geralt turned his body and faced head-on the woman that he considered his daughter.

"So, this whole morning – your mood – it was about this. I didn't pry. I was going to give you time." He shook his head as he stared into her emerald-green eyes. "I thought we were going to have all the time in the world."

He sighed deeply and swallowed hard.

"Is this what you really want?"

"Yes, it is. You'll not try to stop me?" she asked, her voice breaking. "Take me off to Dol Blathanna by force?"

"Ciri, you know me better than that. I've never forced you to do anything, and I never will."

Upon hearing that, she gave a wistful smile.

"I know."

"You'll be fine. You're a witcher."

"No, Geralt. No…I'm not. Without my powers, I'm nothing more than an above-average swordsman. I wouldn't last a year on the Path by myself. And you know it, too. In the few contracts we've been able to find, you never left my side. Not once."

"Is that what this is about? You're going to Nilfgaard because you lost your powers? Then, we can quit the Path. We can do something else."

She shook her head.

"No. I'd go even if I still had my powers. I told you, it's about making a difference in this world. I can do the most good from there."

At that, Ciri looked downward. She slowly unclasped the buckle on the strap that crossed her chest, and a second later, she held her sword out in front of her. Geralt shook his head at her, pain etched across his face.

"No, Ciri, you…you keep it. You may need it where you're going."

"It's a witcher's blade, Geralt. It belongs with a witcher."

Slowly – reluctantly – he reached out, grasped the scabbard, and then brought the sword down to his side.

"You could come with me."

A small, sad smile came to his lips as he shook his head.

"To Emhyr's court? I'd go anywhere with you, but…not there. Not there."

She nodded, causing more tears to break from her lashes and fall down her cheeks.

"I know. I understand. Will I…will I ever see you again?"

"Ciri, we're bonded in a way I can't ever explain. So, if you want to find me, I know you will…somehow."

She nodded again.

"So, this isn't goodbye?"

"Of course not."

At that, she strode forward and hugged the witcher, and he closed his eyes and held her tightly. He didn't want to let her go, and he tried to sear that moment into his mind – the way she felt and the scent of her hair. He could even feel her heart pounding in her chest. Way before he was ready, she released her hug and stepped back, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She, then, quickly turned away, smoothed down the fabric of her coat, and began walking slowly toward the head of the Nilfgaardian ranks. Geralt never took his eyes off of her. As she moved past them, all the soldiers bowed, as did General Morvran Voorhis – one of Emhyr's military commanders – when she finally approached him. The two of them said a few words and he motioned to a nearby mount. She stepped close but then turned and looked back at Geralt, who still hadn't moved an inch. Across the distance, the two stared at each other for the longest time before she finally put a foot in the stirrups and lifted herself into the saddle.

Geralt watched her ride away until she was completely out of sight. It was then that he looked down to see Ciri's sword still in his hand. He grabbed the scabbard in his left hand, the hilt in his right, and slowly unsheathed about half of the blade. Clouds had come in, obscuring the morning sun, so the blade reflected little light. To Geralt's eyes, it looked like it had lost its shine. Despite its dullness, though, he could still see the Elder runes etched into the metal of the blade. Runes that spelled out, 'Zireael.'

He remained still – staring at the inscription and lost in his thoughts – before he, eventually, slowly sheathed the sword. He then closed his eyes and bowed his chin slightly as the cold, winter wind whipped around him.

oOo

_Aedirn, 1273_

The witcher stood in a clearing underneath the light of a full moon. In front of him was a large, wooden cabin surrounded on multiple sides by a dense forest. A forest that shrouded the home in long shadows. He could see no light coming from within and, when he focused his hearing, the only sounds that he could detect were the chirping of cicadas in the trees and the buzzing of mosquitos near his ears. To anyone else, it would appear as if Yennefer had teleported away after their fight, but he knew that, more than likely, she was still inside – seething in the silence and darkness – and awaiting his return.

Geralt approached the front door and stared at it with a dread as thick as the night air. He exhaled slowly and pulled his damp shirt away from his skin. He shook his head, realizing that the muggy, miserable heat seemed to match the situation. Earlier, when it had become clear that absolutely nothing constructive would come of their argument, he'd informed her that he was going for a walk to cool down – at least, emotionally if not physically. He exhaled again and reached for the door, opening it slowly, and stepping inside. With his cat-like eyes, he could see in the dark, but there was just enough moonlight coming in through the windows that he knew that the sorceress would be able to see, as well - if she was still at home.

The witcher paused just inside the threshold and took in the scene. Everything was just as it had been when he'd left. The door to her lab dangled on one of its hinges. Several pieces of furniture were still turned over, and broken glass still littered the floor – the result of thrown beakers and alembics shattering against his Quen shield.

"I'm surprised you returned at all," came a feminine voice to his right. A voice with a cold, hard edge.

He turned his head to see Yennefer rising from a chair. He didn't move as she took a step towards him, but he did bend his fingers into the Quen Sign in anticipation. But her hands were empty, and she stopped a few paces away from him.

"Though, I know you won't stay. You came back just to retrieve your things, right? Leaving is all you know. It's the only thing you're good at."

"Right. Like you'd stay if the roles were reversed."

"Don't you _dare_ presume to tell me what I'd do! And don't you dare blame this on me. You've been angry ever since you found out I encouraged Ciri to take her rightful place on the throne. Because, unlike you, I didn't want her to die – face down in some swamp – killed by drowners for a pittance. You've been looking for any reason to leave ever since then."

"That's not true at all."

"Oh, really? You're denying you were angry?"

"No. I was…and I was hurt. But that was six months ago, and I forgave you. This isn't about that at all."

"_Forgave_ me? I don't _need_ your forgiveness. I did nothing wrong."

"Of course. How can I forget? Nothing's ever your fault. It's always mine. Frankly, I don't know how you can stand to put up with me."

"Oh, going to play the victim now?" she said in mock sympathy. "That is so like you."

Geralt just shook his head. He wasn't going to react to her taunts. He hadn't returned to her house simply to start fighting again.

"You are such a hypocrite," she said with a sneer. "Just how many women have you slept with since we first met, huh?"

He shook his head again and sighed.

"A lot. No different than you. But this -" he said, pointing at the damaged door of her lab "- is completely different. And you know it – even if you refuse to admit it."

Yennefer narrowed her eyes, glaring at the witcher.

"I have never, _ever_ pretended to be someone I'm not. From the moment we met, I made it clear to you who I am and _exactly_ what I've always wanted."

"Yeah. You have."

"And you never had a problem with it in the past."

"Maybe I did, or maybe I didn't. Or maybe I've just changed. Either way, I can't accept it now."

The sorceress clenched her jaws and lifted her right hand to her side. A ball of fire suddenly erupted from her open palm.

"Then just leave, witcher."

The two stood still – staring into each other's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Yen. I'm sorry I'm not enough for you."

oOo 

_Toussaint, 1276_

Geralt awoke to the aroma of frying sausage wafting in under his bedroom door. A small grin came to his face, and then he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He rested his head back down into his pillow and lay still for a moment – just enjoying the comfort of his bed. Even after a year, he still didn't take it for granted. After over eighty years of being a witcher on the Path – sleeping on the ground, exposed to the elements – he didn't think that he would ever take the pleasures of his home for granted. Eventually, though, he arose, got dressed, and headed towards the opposite side of the house – where, he knew, he'd find Marlene preparing a meal.

As usual, the house was dark and quiet. The only light and noise were coming from the kitchen. He pushed the swinging door open and stood in the threshold for a moment. There was a fire in the hearth and an oil lantern on the small table to his right that lit up the room. His eyes quickly fell upon the old woman whose back was turned towards him, and seeing her in the kitchen made him remember the first time that he'd ever laid eyes on her. It was a year ago, in another kitchen, but at that time she was under a curse, in the form of a dangerous wight. In that moment, he'd had the choice between drawing his sword and killing the monster or attempting to break the curse. He'd, obviously, chosen the latter.

Now, the woman was hunched over the wood-burning stove – mumbling to herself - and she hadn't noticed that he had entered her domain. Her blouse – the one that he'd bought her last year – hung loosely on her emaciated frame. The skin of her hands and arms was marked with liver spots, and her gray hair was so thin that he could easily see her scalp.

Finally, he spoke in a loud voice.

"Good morning, Marlene."

When she didn't respond, he tried again, a little louder than before.

She turned – her body still hunched over – and seeing Geralt, she broke into a smile. A smile that revealed a couple of missing teeth. But it was also a smile that reached up to her bright, shining eyes.

"Well, it's about time you got up, Sleepyhead," she said in a barely-audible voice. "I was afraid that I was going to have come wake you."

Geralt smiled. It was the same thing she said every morning.

In the beginning, he'd told her repeatedly that she didn't need to cook for him – that there were no strings attached when he'd invited her into his home. He, especially, didn't expect her to fix breakfast for him since it was the norm for him to awake and start working hours before sunrise. But it didn't matter how early he got up; she'd always have a morning meal waiting for him. And, quickly, he realized that cooking for him was something she enjoyed so, eventually, he stopped feeling guilty about her waiting on him and just accepted it for the act of kindness that it was.

"I know. I know" he replied. "I wish I had even half your energy. Maybe, then, I could actually take care of this place."

He sat down at the table-for-two, and a few moments later, she shuffled over and placed a plateful of food in front of him.

"Go ahead and eat while it's hot. Don't wait for me."

He knew there was no point in arguing with her so he did as he was told. After taking a couple of bites, he felt her pat him gently on the shoulder before she slowly moved back towards the stove.

A minute later, she joined him at the table. He glanced up to see that she barely had any food on her plate, but he didn't say anything. He just went back to eating while she sipped on her coffee. He'd noticed a couple months earlier that she'd started eating less and less, but when he'd asked her about it, she'd simply said that she was losing her appetite. Geralt was concerned about her but didn't know what to do about it so he just kept his thoughts to himself. The two of them sat there in comfortable silence for a while – Geralt eating and Marlene drinking her coffee – until she finally spoke up.

"Have you heard from Ciri?"

Geralt's eyes darted up for a second before looking back down at his plate.

"No, I haven't," he said between bites.

"Well, have you written to her?"

He sighed and put his fork down, looking up at the woman across from him.

"We've been over this, Marlene."

"Have we? I must have forgotten. I'm getting old, you know."

Geralt stared at her for a moment before, eventually, a small smirk appeared on his face.

"Uh huh."

"I bet she misses you."

At that, the smirk disappeared, and he picked up his fork and resumed eating.

"I'm respecting her decision."

"From what you told me, she decided to become the empress of the empire. Not to cut you out of her life."

Geralt quickly finished his meal, pushed the empty plate away from him, and looked into her eyes.

"She chose to go to Emhyr, Marlene. To her _father_. There's no place for me in that world. No place for me in her life now. And that's the way it is, whether I like it or not."

"Perhaps you're right, but…I'm just worried about you, Geralt."

"Worried about me? Why?"

"Family is the most important thing there is in this world, and I lost mine – because of my pride. I don't want you to do the same. I don't want you to be old and lonely – like I was all those years."

He furrowed his brows.

"Well, I'm not…so you don't have to worry."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I am."

"All you do is work on the estate – from before sunup to way past sundown. When was the last time you had a nice meal with a friend?" 

"Every day – here with you and B.B."

Upon hearing that, she smiled.

"I meant a female friend. A _young_ female friend that you can spend time with."

He sighed.

"Marlene, I'm nothing but gray-haired, scarred-up, old gristle - who owns a failing vineyard. The young women of Toussaint aren't beating down my door – for good reason. Besides, I've got you. You're the only woman for me."

"Well, I won't be here forever, Geralt. My end is near. We both know it."

The two of them looked into each other's eyes for a moment.

"Well, all the more reason, then, not to waste my time on other women."

She sighed and shook her head.

"You truly are a stubborn…_wolf._ Maybe it's best you don't court any fair maidens. Wouldn't want to subject them to your hard-headedness."

A small laugh escaped from Geralt's throat, and they both smiled.

"Yeah, I'm definitely doing the women of the world a major favor by staying alone."

He stood, looking down at her.

"I've gotta get to work, but I'll think about what you said, okay? Will that make you happy?"

He then bent over and kissed the top of her head.

"Thanks for breakfast. I'll see you at lunch."

"It was my pleasure. And don't be late. You know I'll come track you down, if need be."

"I know. I know," he said with a smile on his face before leaving the kitchen.

A minute later, Geralt stood outside under the clear, early morning sky. A sky still full of stars. His house sat near the top of a hill, facing east toward the Sansretour Valley, and he let his eyes drift downward, scanning his estate – over the entryway to his wine cellar; the horses' stables; the empty, workers' quarters; the small grove of olive trees on the southern part of his land; and the fields full of grapevines further down the slope.

Like he did almost every morning, he took a few moments to let his senses take in the estate. He could hear the bubbling brook that sprung up on the backside of his house and ran through the middle of his property, down toward the Sansretour River. He inhaled deeply and could easily smell the heavy aroma of the flowering plants in his nearby arboretum. There was a tiny light refracting through a pane of glass coming from his majordomo's quarters – signifying that B.B. was already awake - and the cool morning air caused goosebumps to rise up on his arms for, as usual, he wore no witcher's armor. In the past year, his typical, day-to-day attire consisted solely of boots, trousers, and a thin, cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The only blade that he ever carried anymore was a knife strapped to his belt. He'd even stopped wearing his wolf-head medallion.

A year ago, the former duchess, Anna Henrietta, had hired him to catch the 'Beast of Beauclair' – a monster that had been terrorizing the capital city. He had been completely shocked when, unbidden, she had bestowed upon him the Corvo Bianco estate as partial payment of the contract. In addition, she had stated that the wages of the estate's workers would be paid out of the ducal treasury. Thus, once he had completed the contract, it hadn't been difficult for Geralt to decide to hang up his witcher swords.

Now, as he looked over his estate, he was filled with mixed emotions. Without a doubt, he was incredibly grateful for what he had. Up until a year ago, all that he'd ever owned in a century of living was his horse and whatever the two of them could carry. So, even though Corvo Bianco had been in a fairly sorry condition when he'd first taken ownership, he had still been grateful. And he hadn't left it in its neglected state for very long. It cost him virtually every coin he had, but in time, he repaired everything on his property. Cracks in the walls were patched up. Leaky rooves were fixed. A fresh coat of paint or varnish was applied to nearly every surface.

But, despite the gratitude, he was also just as overwhelmed. Even with B.B.'s help, he'd never known owning a vineyard could be so much work. He'd always assumed that growing grapes and making wine was fairly easy. Just let the grapevines grow on their own; hire some peasants to pick the grapes during the fall harvest; hire a few more peasants to stomp the grapes and put it all in barrels – and, voila, he'd be a winemaker. He couldn't have been more wrong.

The grapevines needed year-round care, not just during the harvest. The vines had to be pruned in the winter to facilitate the optimal number of buds that were allowed to become grape clusters. Throughout the spring and summer, the canopy needed constant attention. A canopy that was too leafy would both reduce grape growth and also attract excess morning moisture, which could lead to an increased chance of a fungal invasion. But a canopy that was pruned too much would allow in too much sunlight and cause the grapes to 'burn.' Young vines needed to be trained via trellising; sometimes the vines needed to be 'green harvested' to remove excess grape clusters; the soil needed to be free of all dead leaves, weeds and other plants so as to not interfere with the vines' growth and production. The details went on and on, and that was only with regards to the growing of the grapes. The process of turning the grapes into wine was just as complicated. Every vineyard needed an experienced viticulturist on staff, and every winery needed a full-time winemaker, as well. And, unfortunately, Geralt no longer had either. In fact, other than B.B., Corvo Bianco had no hired hands at all.

Shortly after Geralt had completed the 'Beast of Beauclair' contract, the duchess had been murdered, and because she had no heirs, the duchy was ruled for a short time by a council of nobles who deemed the rebuilding of the destroyed capital as taking primary importance. Therefore, they commanded the ducal treasurer to eliminate all non-essential spending. This included paying the wages of the employees at Corvo Bianco. Geralt did what he could – selling off reserve barrels of Sepremento located in the wine cellar - but, eventually, he simply had no more funds with which to pay the workers. At that point, they either hired on at other vineyards in the duchy or they moved into the city, where they quickly found work as day-laborers helping all the masons, carpenters, and other craftsmen who had been hired to restore the damaged structures of Beauclair.

And all of that explained why Geralt toiled in the fields between eighteen and twenty hours a day. He simply couldn't afford to hire anyone else to work for him. To make matters worse was the fact that the previous year the grapevines had been attacked by a fungus, which had destroyed the crops. Thus, he'd lost an entire year's worth of revenue that could have helped him get through the current, lean time. When he'd first decided to hang up his swords and become a full-time winemaker, it had been like a dream come true. But, now, a year later, the fairy tale was turning into a nightmare.

All of those thoughts ran through his head as he gazed out over his estate, but, eventually, he spoke in a quiet whisper to himself.

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself, and get to work."

With that, he exhaled deeply and then strode off towards his grapevines, for they all needed some heavy pruning, and they weren't going to prune themselves.

oOo

The sun was nearly straight overhead, and Geralt knew that lunch-time was closing in when he heard an unmistakable noise turn off the main road and approach Corvo Bianco. It was the rhythmic, metallic sound of an armor-clad knight riding a horse. Geralt sheathed his knife and walked up the slope of the field and met the helmeted knight just outside the southern entrance to his estate. The knight's gold and silver armor shone in the sunlight, and the breastplate bore a large eagle, with both wings extended. Geralt was aware of only one knight in the duchy with armor exactly like that, and he briefly wondered what could bring the Baron de Launfal to his home.

"Greetings, Palmerin," he said, lifting his right hand.

The knight pulled up on his reins and quickly dismounted. He removed his helmet, revealing a glistening, bald pate and muttonchop sideburns.

"Greetings, Geralt," he stated, offering an outstretched hand. "How do you fare?"

The two men shook hands.

"Can't complain. It wouldn't change anything even if I did. How's life at the palace – with the new duke?"

The knight pursed his lips.

"I shall follow your wise example, my friend. Neither shall I complain."

Geralt nodded at that. He'd heard that Duke Vigo was difficult. He was a full-blooded Nilfgaardian, who also happened to be a distant cousin of both Anna Henrietta and Emperor Emhyr. Rumor was that Emhyr himself had placed the man on the throne. The new monarch was also related to the sorceress, Fringilla Vigo, and Geralt hoped that she wasn't going to visit the duchy anytime soon. Running into her was the last thing he needed.

"Want to come up to the house? It's almost lunchtime. I bet Marlene made enough for you to join us."

Suddenly, a pained expression came to the knight's face.

"Ah, I would, my friend, but I'm afraid this is no social visit. I am here on courtly duties."

He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a scroll, the wax seal stamped with the ducal signet.

"I'm sorry, Geralt," he said as he handed it over.

Geralt took the scroll but didn't break the seal.

"Well, let's, at least, get out of the sun. What do you say?"

Palmerin agreed, and the two walked to the covered part of the stables where the knight threw his mount's reins over a railing. While Palmerin leaned against the same railing and looked out across the estate, Geralt grabbed a bottle of vodka and two cups off a nearby shelf.

"Were you expecting me?"

"No. Sometimes, B.B. joins me out here for a drink while I groom Roach."

Geralt walked over to Palmerin and poured a finger of alcohol into their cups. He then held up the scroll in his hand.

"Sounded like you already know what this says. So, why don't you just tell me?"

Palmerin nodded.

"Yes, it is best if bad news is brought by a friend. You are being levied an extra tax, Geralt. I believe two thousand ducal florens."

"Two thousand? You gotta be kidding."

"I swear on the heron - what I say is true."

"But why? Am I the only one?"

Geralt was suddenly suspicious that this new and incredibly exorbitant tax was the idea of either Emhyr or Fringilla. Over the years, he had endeared himself very little to either one.

Palmerin glanced to his left and his right – as if looking for spies.

"What I say next, you must not repeat. Swear it, my friend."

Geralt nodded. "On the heron."

"The ducal coffers are nearly empty."

"What? How is that possible? Toussaint is one of the richest duchies in the empire."

"The Beast of Beauclair. The attack on the city and the palace. There was much more damage than anyone anticipated. The repairs drained the ducal treasury a great deal. And then there was the cost of Anna Henrietta's funeral. You may recall that it lasted a week."

"Yeah, I remember. And I'm sure that giant, bronze statue of her in the middle of town wasn't cheap."

"Indeed, it was not. But the primary reason behind our duchy's new shortage of funds is the war."

"Between Nilfgaard and the North? What's Toussaint got to do with that?"

"Forgive me. I assumed that you'd heard."

Geralt shook his head.

"You know I don't get to town much. And I rarely get visitors."

"You do speak the truth. I don't remember the last time I saw you. Well, as part of the recent peace agreement, Nilfgaard promised to pay Redania substantial reparations. In addition, the Empire needs additional funds to rebuild their newly acquired lands south of the Pontar – particularly Temeria. Thus, Emperor Emhyr has called for tribute from all of his empire's provinces – including us. The new duke has sent our tribute, but now, he needs to refill our treasury. So, it is not just you who is being levied with this new tax. All estates and business owners in the duchy must pay their fair share."

"Fair share," Geralt mumbled to himself, while shaking his head. He hated that term, for, over the course of his life, he had rarely considered his 'fair share' to actually be fair. Not surprisingly, 'fair' seemed to always be skewed to the other side's favor. He looked at Palmerin. "So, Emhyr decides to go 'scorched-earth' through the north, and we end up having to pay for it. That's fantastic. When's the tax due?"

"Well, here, at least, is some good news. The duke does realize that our economy is based on grapes and wine. So, you have until the end of the year – after the fall harvest. I feel for you, my friend. By my troth, I truly do. I know your estate is struggling."

"Yeah…yeah, it is."

Suddenly, Palmerin got a uncomfortable look on his face. He reached into his saddle bags and brought out another scroll. He handed it over to Geralt.

"And… your struggles are no secret. That is why Count Petit-Durand -" he nodded toward the second scroll "- is making you an offer on Corvo Bianco. He requested that I deliver this."

Geralt clenched his jaws and glared at the small scroll in his fist. Suddenly, flames burst forth from his palm, catching the scroll on fire. He threw it on the ground, where he ground out the flames under his boot. After a moment, he lifted his eyes to meet those of Palmerin.

"That's my answer to the Count – the arrogant prick."

"By the gods, man! Aren't you even curious as to his offer?"

"No, I'm not. This is my home, Palmerin. If I lose it, then what – I go back to being a witcher on the Path? No thanks. Besides, I couldn't do that to B.B. or Marlene."

"Ah, Geralt, please. B.B. is a truly exceptional majordomo. Half the estate owners in the duchy would hire him in a heartbeat."

"Maybe so, but what about Marlene? Half the estate owners gonna take her in, too?"

The knight didn't say a word.

"She's got no family. She's got no one. And I made a promise to her. That she could stay here for as long as she wanted. And I'll be damned if I break that promise. I'll be damned if I turn my back on her. I won't do it."

A large smile slowly came to Palmerin's face.

"You see, Geralt, this here – this is why we get along so well. We're kindred spirits, you and I. Because you may have the face of a witcher, but you have the heart of a knight."

"Yeah? Fantastic. Look where that's got us. I'm up to my ears in debt – about to lose my home. And you take orders from Emhyr's puppet."

Palmerin sighed deeply.

"Yes. Life has not turned out like I expected."

Geralt stared into his friend's mournful eyes.

"Truer words have never been spoken."

The knight then lifted his cup.

"To our beloved duchess, Anna Henrietta," he toasted.

"And to Milton," answered Geralt with a nod.

The knight nodded back.

"To them both."

"Yeah," said the witcher, lifting his cup in a salute. "To them both."

oOo

"So, how's it look?" asked Geralt.

He and Barnabas-Basil sat across from each other at a table in the majordomo's quarters with the estate's ledger in between them. B.B. adjusted his glasses and ran a hand over his bald head as his eyes inspected the ledger.

"Not good, sir. Not good."

"Alright, let me see," said Geralt, turning the book toward himself. "How about we go over our expenses first?"

"Well, the top number is the short-term loan we took out from Cianfanelli's bank."

Geralt found the entry with his finger and nodded.

"The next item is the fee for the viticulturist's monthly consultations. After that is the cost of the alchemical fungicide. I've also included the taxes – both the normal, estate tax and the new 'tribute' tax that the duke -"

"Wait," interrupted Geralt. His eyes were scanning up and down the numbers. He then looked up and peered at B.B. "I don't see an entry for your salary."

The majordomo shifted in his seat and broke eye-contact with his boss. He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses again.

"Well, you see, sir…it's…it's like this. I, uh, I was meaning to tell you…"

"Knock it off, B.B." said Geralt, glaring at his steward. "How long?"

"Pardon, sir?"

"Don't 'pardon' me. How long have you been working without taking your salary?"

B.B. swallowed, brought his eyes up to Geralt's, and sighed.

"Since the first of the year, sir."

Geralt shook his head.

"I appreciate it, B.B. I really do, but I can't let you do that."

"Sir, if I may – last year, when I was hired by the duchess for the role of majordomo, it broke my heart to see how neglected this once-great estate had become. And, frankly, sir, I had strong doubts about its future when I heard that she'd gifted it to a witcher. But you have inspired me, sir. The amount of money and work that you've put into the property's restoration is truly admirable, and I want to do my part to bring it back to its full glory. And I honestly believe that we will. By the end of the year, I'm truly confident that we will have turned the corner. We – myself included – just need to keep making a few more sacrifices."

Geralt rubbed his hand across the stubble on his jaw. He exhaled deeply and, finally, gave a small nod.

"Okay, B.B. But I'm paying you back. All of it. With interest. You understand me?"

"Understood, sir," he replied with a smile. "It's a deal."

"What about the larder? How stocked is it?"

Barnabas-Basil shook his head.

"We're running low, sir. Maybe another month's worth of supplies, at most."

Upon hearing that, Geralt reached into the satchel that he was wearing near his hip, and then he tossed a bulky coin purse onto the table.

"Well, hopefully, this will take care of the larder for a while. I was going to bring this out once we started discussing our assets, but I guess now is as good a time as any."

B.B. opened the purse, and his eyes widened slightly.

"This will definitely suffice, sir." Then a smile came to his face. "Winnings from Gwent, by chance?"

Geralt smirked.

"Not hardly. You've seen my deck. And my luck."

"Quite true. Then…if I may ask, sir?"

"I sold my witcher's sword. The silver one."

"Sir?"

"Don't make a big deal about it, B.B. As you just said – we all gotta make some sacrifices. You read the fine print on the duke's decree, right?"

The majordomo nodded.

"Then, you know…if I'm short on that payment, he can confiscate the estate."

"That's how I interpreted it, too, sir."

"Right, and besides, I wasn't planning on ever using it again, anyway.

"But, sir…your _sword_? I…I can't believe you actually sold it. A witcher without his sword is like…well, like no witcher at all."

Geralt stared intently at his steward and then slowly nodded his head.

"I've told you before, B.B. I'm done with that life, and I meant it. This is my home now. So, let's just move on."

"As you wish, sir."

They quickly went over the rest of the estate's expenses before turning their attention to the revenues. B.B. had just recently sold the last barrels of Sepremento to The Pheasantry. Someone from the restaurant would be coming any day to pick up the wine and deliver payment. But the rest of the revenue wouldn't arrive until much later in the year. The grapes would be harvested in the fall, and the olive orchard's harvest would start sometime after that.

"And the money from the harvests is gonna cover our bank loan and all the year-end levies?" asked Geralt.

"Based on my calculations, they should – but just barely. But, unfortunately, we won't be able to produce any wine this year. We'll need to sell the entirety our grape production to other wineries just to meet our expenses. And we'll definitely need to pray to the gods for perfect weather…because we'll need the best crop possible."

Geralt leaned back in his chair, shook his head, and peered into B.B.'s eyes.

"Praying to the gods?" he said, and then he sighed. "Hell, I haven't done that in over ninety years. We really are in desperate times."

oOo

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," chirped the viticulturist - a small man who wore a wide-brimmed, cloth hat. He was bent over, eyeballing a small cluster of grapes and shaking his head. He'd been doing the same thing for the last half hour. Finally, he looked up at a grimacing Geralt, who had been following him around the vineyard.

"Zhere eez no doubt, Monsieur. Zhe fungus haz returned, and eet haz infected zhe entire crop. Well, except for zhe small field to zhe north. Eet eez still healthy."

"How…How is that possible? I did_ everything_ you told me do. Pruning, weeding, irrigating, applying the fungicide – everything. To the letter."

"Pfft," said Pierre with a shrug. "Zhere are two possibilitees. Eezer you deed not follow my instructions to zhe letter…or zhe fungus eez down in zhe roots. Eet happens."

Geralt clenched his jaws.

"Then, it's down in the roots."

"So you say, Monsieur."

"How do I get rid of it?"

"Ah…now zhat eet eez in zhe roots…only by drasteec meazures."

"Just how drastic?"

"You must deeg up zhe vines, by zhe roots…and burn zhem all. Zees eez an extreme case, Monsieur. I'm sorry, but zhere eez no ozer way at zees point."

oOo

Geralt stood in the middle of Corvo Bianco, watching thick columns of smoke rise over his estate. His hands and forearms were covered with dirt. Even his face was streaked with soil where he'd wiped away the sweat from his cheeks and brow. His long hair had come free from its pony-tail, and it now hung loose, just touching the top of his shoulders. Eventually, he dropped his gaze from the swirls of smoke in the sky and scanned the slope below him, and the sight brought back memories of war zones that he'd come across during his decades on the Path. Only a few years back, he'd seen countless fields just like the one in front of him in No Man's Land. Trampled fields with corpses of soldiers piled high on make-shift pyres after a battle – their flesh charred and smoldering. The carnage had always filled him with disgust – disgust for the depravity of the human heart. Disdain for the lust for power that seemed to reside in so many rulers. Ultimately and invariably, though, seeing so many pointless deaths had always brought about a feeling of contempt – contempt for both the injustice and the futility of life. For, while monarchs and nobles sat comfortably in their castles, deciding to wage war for one capricious reason or another, it was – for the most part - the blood of peasants that turned the soil red. And where was the fairness in that? It was that same contempt for injustice that he was feeling now. In the past year, he'd given everything he'd had in terms of money, time, and energy into making his estate a success, but it had all been for naught.

He looked from his left to his right, his eyes stopping on each of the numerous mounds of dug-up and burning grapevines scattered throughout his fields. And then he let out a deep sigh. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him – that his dream of having a home – of finally putting down roots - was literally going up in flames. He knew that Dandelion would've viewed the circumstances as poetic and would've attempted to write a sonnet about it, but all Geralt wanted to do was curse and kick something.

"Three years, B.B.," he said, his eyes still fixed on the scene below him.

His majordomo – also covered in sweat and dirt and holding a shovel – stood next to him. B.B. glanced at Geralt for a moment before he, too, stared back at the fires in the field.

"Even if we replanted new vines tomorrow…it'll be three years until our first crop."

The steward nodded his head.

"Yes, sir," was all that he said in return.

Geralt peered at the mound right in front of them. It was six feet in diameter and at least five feet high. Just as he'd done with the rest, he'd cut the vines in this nearest pile into manageable pieces so that they could be more easily stacked on top of one another. He let himself take in the mangled mess. Let his eyes drift over each piece of broken, twisted vine, the diseased leaves, and the ruined clusters of grapes. Eventually, he gave a slight shake of his head and spoke again.

"I guess the gods didn't hear our prayers."

He stepped forward and walked around the mound of destroyed vines, casting a continuous Igni Sign for several seconds. Once he was back in his original spot, he stood for moment, watching the flames begin to grow and dance, and then he turned and trudged slowly up to his house.

oOo

Geralt was in his bedroom, staring at the trunk next to his bed, but, in reality, seeing nothing. He was lost in his thoughts, remembering the last witcher contract he'd ever taken – 'The Beast of Beauclair.' Not one part of that whole sorry episode had turned out like he'd wanted. Virtually everyone involved wound up dead. And those that had survived were scarred for life – many physically and, certainly, almost all emotionally. The re-painted and re-spackled city of Beauclair seemed to reflect the emotional psyche of its citizens perfectly. On the outside, it looked normal, but deep down, everyone knew that there was still some structural damage.

For weeks afterward, Geralt had questioned himself. Questioned if he should have done things differently. While he'd made decisions that he thought were right at the time, he knew without a doubt that, with one or two different choices on his part, Anna Henrietta would still be alive. And her death still weighed on him. As did his friend Milton's. Hell, even Syanna and Dettlaff's deaths filled him with regret. Not for anything that he'd specifically done, but, rather, with just a general remorse and sadness that he lived in such a bloody and violent world. And that, more than anything else, was why he'd decided to hang up his witcher swords. Yes, the idea of having an actual home had resonated with him. After more than eight decades on the Path, he was exhausted – tired of the wandering. And the thought of finally having some kind of 'permanence' satisfied a great longing within. But even more than wanting a home and some stability in his life, he was just tired of the violence. Tired of the killing.

And from the day he had stepped off the Path, he'd never once regretted his decision. In fact, the instant he removed the swords from his back, he'd felt a fundamental shift within himself. In a way that he couldn't fully explain, he suddenly seemed 'lighter' than before, which had surprised him for he hadn't even realized that his life had been so 'heavy.' He had never truly realized just how much the witcher's life had weighed down his soul.

He bent over, opened the trunk, and peered at the items within. His silver, wolf-head medallion rested on top of a well-worn black jacket – so well-worn that in some places the material had faded to blackish-brown. The jacket was made of a resilient, specially-treated leather that had served as his armor, and it carried the scars from his countless battles – over a dozen rips, cuts, and tears that he had sewn up over the years. He pulled the medallion and jacket out of the trunk, laid them on his bedspread, and then he reached down and grabbed a long, blanket-covered bundle from beneath the bed. After placing the bundle on the bed, he unrolled it to reveal two swords – his meteorite steel sword and a silver sword that he'd never actually used before. It was a sword that he'd bought from Master Ort almost four years ago.

Geralt gazed down at Ciri's silver sword for almost a minute – painful memories of their goodbye coming to his mind - before he finally picked it up and unsheathed the blade. He held it up in front of him – just staring at the gleaming silver for several long moments. Its grip felt just the tiniest bit awkward in his hand, but he wasn't sure if it was because of the sword or because of him. He rotated his wrist a couple of times causing the blade to swish through the air, and then he let out a deep sigh.

"It's so much easier to kill than to nurture. To spill blood than to save…to destroy life than to make things grow. Sometimes I'm surprised that anything good can actually survive in this world," he said in a low voice. "I thought I'd never wield a sword again. But I guess I was just fooling myself…thinking I could ever truly leave the Path. It's the only thing I'm good at."

"You don't have to go, sir," answered B.B. He and Marlene were standing near the bedroom door, and he was holding a lit lantern. "You can sell to Count Petit-Durand."

"He's the last person I'd ever sell to."

"Then, sell to someone else, sir. I know we can find another buyer."

Geralt's eyes moved from B.B to Marlene. He looked at her for a moment before looking again at B.B.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "There's still time before the levies are due. I'll just go back to what I know best."

He sheathed the sword and laid it back on the bed. Then, with another sigh, he slowly picked up the medallion and placed it around his neck. He tucked the wolf-head underneath his shirt, the cool metal against the skin of his chest. Next, he slid on the leather jacket and rolled his shoulders back and forth a couple of times.

"It's a little tight," he said looking at Marlene. A sad smile came to his face. "Guess all your cooking fattened me up a bit."

He then grabbed his swords, and the three of them headed out into the night. As he walked towards the stables, he detected the acrid smell of burnt vines in his fields, but he did his best to ignore it. Roach was saddled and ready to go - a bed-roll and packed saddle-bags already on her back, as well. Geralt connected the swords' scabbards to the saddle and then turned towards B.B. and Marlene.

"I hope to be back before the end of the year. And, hopefully, with enough coin."

"We'll be waiting for you," said Marlene.

She held out her hand toward Geralt, and he stepped close and put his hand in hers. She squeezed it and patted the top of it with her other hand while their eyes connected.

"I'm so damn tired of 'good-byes.'''

"Me, too," she answered. "But such is life."

He nodded slowly. "Don't I know it."

They looked at one another a bit longer, and then he released her hand and faced his steward.

"Do whatever you think's best while I'm gone, B.B. You know I trust you."

And with that, he stepped towards Roach and pulled himself up into the saddle. He peered out over his estate for several long moments before finally turning back and looking at Marlene and B.B. a final time. He raised a hand in farewell to them both, and then the witcher rode off into the darkness.


End file.
